


following the marigolds home

by song_takemehome



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bittybones (Undertale), Edgy Sans (Undertale), F/M, Female Reader, Homelessness, Hurt/Comfort, Implied abuse, Reader Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:55:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23994112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/song_takemehome/pseuds/song_takemehome
Summary: the brief moments between you and a homeless bitty.
Relationships: Sans (Undertale)/Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 122





	following the marigolds home

**Author's Note:**

> this is another piece of stashed writing i had laying about in the abyss that is known as my google drive. i wrote this in 2017 and had no idea how to go from what i had, thus i reluctantly left it as a one-shot. yes, i'm fully aware i'm cruel by taunting you all with these bits and pieces, forgive me...
> 
> another friendly reminder: i am *slowly* working on the rewrite of unorthodox animals. please don't expect it any time soon, however. i've been attempting to develop a consistent style (which is ever changing) and plan to turn it into a monster of a one-shot rather than a multi-chapter work.

The first time you see him is a Wednesday night. It’s the next block, a corner house gated with impeccably trimmed shrubbery and a magnificently leaved pine. He hides in the thicket of the needles where he is never detected. Never detected by anyone. Except you. If he knows you can see him he doesn't seem to mind or care. This doesn't surprise you entirely, for you leave him what he needs, and you doubt he’ll refuse willing generosity. At least, that's what you want to believe.

* * *

Earth is currently swiveling on its axis and gravitating closer to the sun (you decide whoever designed seasons to work like that doesn't make it on your list of favorite people, and that's far in between). Inevitably, this is around the same time summer recedes to the other side of the globe with fading remains of salty streaks, peeling burns, and a few stubborn grains of sand. Like oil and water, winter and summer never mingle, spring and autumn serving to be that nearly nonexistent space in between. Instead, when the metaphorical bottle is flipped, they switch—water on bottom and oil on top. You abhor it with a passion enough to put the pits of hell to shame. Although, if hell is below zero you might be living it presently.

Speaking of the cold, you are swathed from head to toe in armor against the winds eager to edge under said protection and prick any exposed skin you may have left vulnerable: thermal sweater shielded beneath an autumn parka (because it’s fucking autumn, not winter) with thermal skinnies tucked into fur-lined boots stretching just to the halfway mark of your calves. With the winter accessories of gloves and a scarf you look ready to battle the oncoming brutal season. You’re not. A hot beach day is impossible, but you can dream. 

The day ceases to dominate time, giving that privilege to the night which is making its way across the sky as you are walking home. Why the hell are you walking in the damn cold you curse without remorse? At the moment you’re hunting for another car while your previous one is currently in the junkyard after a fender bender that’s left the whole front bumper torn right off from that cheap piece of metal hunk. That didn’t make you wince, though, because that was bound to happen one day; it definitely wasn’t the radiator that was demolished and spilling its fluids everywhere, it was the loss of a vehicle that provided you relatively safe transportation in this abominable weather. Now you're without that trouble, thankfully but not so thankfully, because you dumped more money down the drain to repair it on a repeated offense than what it was sold to you.

You’re just praising whatever gods up there that work is fairly close to consider walking, ten to fifteen minutes give or take. It's unfortunate you don't own a bike or know any relatives who would help despite their own packed schedules. You can't impose on them, no matter if they’re family or not. Taking the bus is out of the question; you’ll get to work faster by foot than on bus in rush hour. Depending when you can snatch up a car you’ll need to invest in some hand warmers. Multiple hand warmers. Possibly an electric blanket.

_Will it be strange to walk around with a battery-operated electric blanket?_

You don’t have the chance to answer yourself. A squirrel that’s let you walk by, much closer than it probably intends, scurries into the shrubbery of a corner house. The abrupt movement startles you from your pessimistic thoughts, and you automatically snap your attention to the squirrel that seems to be oddly caught in the thicket of the evergreen bush. It’s dark, but not that dark, and you’re quite positive squirrels don’t have red eyes, but that’s not a squirrel. 

Ironically, you’re the one caught in headlights as you unblinkingly eye the desperately scrambling being that’s entangled within the multitude of wispy branches that even a squirrel couldn’t slip through. Realizing his helpless position and that he’s caught your undivided attention, the bitty whips around to hold you in his garnet marbles. You’re floored by the unadulterated terror that paints his micro skull, a terror that tremors in waves throughout his slight body. 

Curiosity burns quickly: what has happened to make the bitty look this way, as if you had every heinous objective to harm him? His incandescent pupils nervously dart about, as if looking for another escape, despite that you make no indication of nearing him. He only hesitates for a second before dissipating into nothing. You’re left staring at the empty cove he was caught in seconds prior. The fear-stricken bitty burns beneath your eyelids as you weakly call for sleep in the too-cool-for-comfort sheets of your bed. 

* * *

You see him again, and again, and again. Sometimes you can catch a glimpse of him before he notices you approaching and hides away. Initially, you assumed he had been playing outside, and perhaps you scared him, but that scenario is trampled on when you see him shoveling food into his maw of razor teeth, donning the same clothes that’s gradually dirtying, and expertly climbing the pine of the corner house in haste, as if running, as if hiding. 

He’s not playing. You confirm this when you don’t see him one night. After some strained searchings, you can spot him sleeping in a gathering of abandoned birds’ nests amidst the branches, curled within himself in a tight ball, as to fight off the cold. You go home that day without your scarf that you’ve left at the base of the trunk, mindlessly completing the rest of your night in flowing motions. The following day, the scarf is missing, and you spot the very ends of the tassels hanging from where the birds’ nests are. You want to smile, but you don't.

You’ve never considered adopting a bitty in the past (the gods help you if you did, because you’d adopt them all if you could). It’s not that you aren’t financially well-off; you can meet your daily needs, you can pay your bills, and luxury isn’t common, but you can still get a taste of it once in a while. Your closet says as much. Although you kind of regret those suede heels. She was your best friend once upon a time ago. Maybe you can get an extra pinch of moolah by selling some clothes you haven’t touched in ages. Your closet would appreciate the diet. 

Anyway. The thought hasn’t meandered its way through your mind is all. Humans are selfish, and you are no exception. You like your life the way it currently is. It could be better, but you’re generally content with privacy and independence. However, you’re beginning to truly realize how mundane it is: wake up, go to work, sleep, rinse and repeat. Food, socializing, and chores are sprinkled in there somewhere. The thought of homing a bitty becomes more appealing the more you let it play around your head, and loneliness soon begins to claw at you insistently.

Next time you leave a cup of hot cocoa topped with a generous handful of mini marshmallows (a coffee straw to help him); that disappears. The next time after that you leave a warm bagel slathered richly with cream cheese and cut in bite-sized pieces; that disappears. There are no remains of the bagel you left the other night, not even the paper you wrapped it up in, just as it was with the hot cocoa cup. It seems the more you leave behind, the less you see him. Well, you're hoping he’s the one taking your food and not an actual squirrel.

Once again, you fail to find him with a cursory glance as you trek home, disappointment heavy on your chest. You can still spot the fraying ends of your scarf in the tree, relieving you. Before you pivot the end of the street, however, your jeans catch onto an obstacle. You peer over your shoulder and expect to see the blue fabric snagged by the bush (which doesn't make sense in its clean-cut state, yet it only seems rational) but find _his_ garnet marbles bearing into you helplessly. Something fractures within you at the desperation brimming to the pupils of this bitty. There's hope, just a sliver, but it’s there and meant for you. 

Just as you’re about to angle yourself to properly face him, he hastily releases his death grip on you (you won’t be surprised if his claws have torn a gash in the denim), as if startled by his own actions. Before you can stop him, he disappears again. You find it particularly hard to walk away this night, tempted to stay and wait for him or to seek him out in the tree, but you predict he won't be there after that incident or be in favor of confronting you.

* * *

When you wake up the next morning, blearily navigating your way around your kitchen, you rifle through your pantry cupboard and find that you don’t remember eating one of your croissants. It’s as if the world pauses for a second as you stare at the empty space where only a few crumbs are left. You’re still unable to smile.

This continues. Nutrient bars, fruits, portions of leftovers, etc.; gone. These are insignificant doings, something a person won’t usually take to notice, but you’re single, you live alone, and you’re aware of little changes, especially if it's food that you’re meant to eat. You don’t particularly mind, rather, you begin to purposely leave food out. As always, they vanish some time during the night and early morning. He knows what you’re doing, he knows you’re conscious of his visit, but he doesn’t hesitate to continue coming anyway. It must mean he trusts you on some level, even if it's an insignificant raise to the bar, or he thinks you're oblivious. He still only takes in small amounts so as to not raise any suspicion.

It’s some ungodly hour in the middle of the night when you find yourself parched. On a mission to soothe your thirst with a tall glass of cold water, even if your bladder may disagree otherwise in the morning, you forget about your nocturnal visitor and flick the light switch on in your kitchen. You nearly mimic a banshee when your sleep-ridden eyes don’t completely register the bitty as a bitty but as a rodent that’s somehow made it within your home. 

The bitty in question freezes momentarily but is quick to jolt into action, already sprinting along your counter top and ready to lunge out of the window above your sink that’s cracked open just enough for him to fit though. Miraculously, you manage to move quicker, clambering to jerk the curtain over the exit. Guilt spears you for a split second at the horror on the bitty’s face, but it’s cinched by a violent rage darkening his skull. You don’t expect to see such staggering enmity from him, but you don’t blame him for thwarting his escape plans and possibly making him feel threatened.

“Wait, wait,” you whisper frantically, wanting to assure him you mean no harm but don’t want him to scamper off. 

He obeys, but not happily so. The bitty is hunched, arms slightly splayed out with claws curled dangerously, legs spread at a wide angle, and a scowl displaying his pointed whites (one cuspid dipped gold). You present a palm up to ease him, attempting to loosen yourself as to not alarm him with unintentional body language.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” you promise gently.

“That’s what they all say,” he scoffs more to himself, and you _flinch_ , not at the graveling of his voice but the words that dribble out like venom _._

You choose to pretend you don’t hear him and continue steadily, “Please, hear me out.” There are no indications of the bitty relaxing, but he doesn't retort. “I don’t know your situation, but I think it’s safe for me to say that you’re in need of shelter,” you delicately allege, placing thick forethought into your choice of words. 

You’re treading on dangerous waters and one slip up can drown you. After all, if he really wants to, he can easily run the other direction, lead you in a wild goose chase, and escape where he came in. You’ve obviously caught his attention enough that he’s considering staying to humor you some. 

“Whaddaya know what I need? Like ya said, ya don’t know my situation.” Despite your meticulous picking of phrasing, he is still defensive. 

Your patience isn’t easily tried, so you’re faring well. For now. You’re unable to help the witty retort, however. “Well, if you sneaking into my home to take my food doesn’t prove it then I don’t know what will.” The faintest smile tugs on one corner of your mouth, brows furrowing gently as you tease him a bit.

This time he flinches. You aren’t sure if his face dusts red in embarrassment or anger. “Yer the one who left it out. ‘Course I’d take it.” 

You have to bite your tongue to keep from laughing at his admission that he’s spout out in a flustered attempt to counter your crack. “Look; you know I leave it out for you, I know you’re taking it. If you thought I had bad intentions toward you, I, for a fact, know you wouldn’t risk returning.”

He doesn’t say anything, and you take that as a cue to continue.

“Like I said, I don’t know you’re situation, and I don’t want to make assumptions, but I’ve been contemplating this for a few days now—”

“Get ta yer damn point,” he snarls, his nasty scowl deepening you’re surprised it doesn’t crack his skull.

You sigh, not at all offended. You were attempting to build it up to that point and give him a chance to refuse after your reasoning. To hell with it; he wants it, okay. Without a shred of hesitation, you boldly offer, “Let me be your caretaker.” 

Ire flickers to shock at gunshot speed. You two remain in tense silence for long seconds, your arm muscles beginning to protest in burning pain at the suspended position in mid air which is a bit disappointing, knowing you’ve done better. That was back in high school, so you’re a bit rusty.

“Thought ya were gonna turn me back into the adoption center.” The glower is back, unsurprisingly. Must be a defense mechanism. It makes you wonder how it’s magically possible for that much intensity to be packed within a six-inch bitty. 

“That was my second option if you refused, and I have a feeling we’re about to ensue a cha—” You don’t even finish your sentence when the bitty is suddenly gone. 

You jolt forth but restrain yourself, reluctant to leave the window freely open. You regret that decision. Not five seconds after, the sickening collision of some glass trinkets split the eerily quiet air. You sprint to the source, recognize him on the hallway table, then you don’t. He leaves you with broken glass, a half eaten chicken breast, and an open window letting in the nipping air you loathe.

The encounter plays a broken record as you attempt to sleep. Your body's a glass layer atop another sheet, but sleep refuses to cooperate, and so you lay there with smoldering thoughts of the estranged bitty.

* * *

Every night you still leave food out, even if they are no longer taken advantage of. Stubbornness doesn't streak within you as often as it does your dad, but you believe he’ll return when he assumes you won’t attempt to home him. He’s been hurt to the point he doesn't want a caretaker, and the curiosity continues to burn fuel. You tell yourself he’s fine when you no longer see the nests or scarf. You tell yourself he’s fine when your food begins to grow stale. You tell yourself he’s fine. You repeat that mantra until it becomes numb, until it isn't convincing enough to quell the hauntings. Yet you continue to leave food for him, even leave the window unlocked and cracked just a slice. 

You come home late, hooking your keys up, peeling off layers to stash away, unceremoniously tossing your purse on the counter, and gawk at the empty plate and cup in silent awe. That night you cook dinner with a fervor that’s nearly died. Giddiness ripples in vibrating and restless tingles; it makes you feel like a child. This time sleep doesn’t come easily for another reason entirely.

Come morning and your food is untouched. It takes you a week and a half to discover that he’s taking without a pattern to follow—the guaranteed unpredictability makes him feel safe enough to return again. He’s so close yet so far, settling for precautionary measures for his own satisfaction. You’re playing a hot-n-cold game with him, a game where he strums the strings. Wisely, you don’t disturb what he’s begun, presenting food without a hitch.

* * *

The painted dry walls are uncomfortably chilling pressed onto your cheek, the wall ledge more so with its sharpness gouging into your hip. You ought to start wearing bottoms to sleep, especially with winter creeping up, but you’d feel overwhelmingly warm, so you can’t find it in yourself to dive into bed with anything else but a huge tee and panties. 

That aside, the unnatural darkness from the lack of many windows and from outside creates a threadbare blindfold over your vision, but the moonlight gives way to vague silhouettes. The sudden corner tapering from the entrance hall to the kitchen is sharp, but provides coverage.

You watch, mesmerized, as the bitty sits and relishes the beef stew. For the first time he doesn’t sport a glare or dread. It’s just a vacant reticence, although his actions speak otherwise. You finally smile.

**Author's Note:**

> © 2018 song_takemehome


End file.
